


Leave Us the Counterpoint

by stellar_dust



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Astronomy, Cars, Ducks, F/M, Historical, M/M, Now with alternate ending!, Oxford, Playlist Available, folios, gratuitous renaissance poetry, john donne, too many footnotes really, utterly self-indulgent angsty fluff, vehicular maintenance, with another historical fic in footnotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellar_dust/pseuds/stellar_dust
Summary: I shall provide you with a choice of summaries:In which Crowley and Aziraphale find that they both have business in Oxfordshire. An auspicious meeting follows.orThe Bentley vs. Mrs Merdle: who would win??  (I mean, obviously the Bentley, given its occult advantage; but you should read the story anyway.)or"Peter, what did you mean when you said that anybody could have the harmony if they would leave us the counterpoint?""Why," he said, shaking his head, "that I like my music polyphonic. If you think I meant anything else, you know what I meant."- Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night





	1. Leave Us the Counterpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader, please recall that this story takes place in neither Oxfordshire nor 1935, but rather, as with all fiction, Cloud-Cuckooland (with apologies to Sayers). I therefore beg your indulgence for any discrepancies from reality.
> 
> Chapter 2 is a playlist.
> 
> Chapter 3 is an alternate ending. Oops, my hand slipped.

_1935  
Oxfordshire_

It was a perfect late spring day. The sun shone down on the lambs frolicking in the pastures, nightingales sang in the hedgerows, and one gleaming black 1926 Bentley sat poised at a crossroads.

"Poised" was not, perhaps, the most accurate word for the situation. The Bentley had been there for some time, after all, and did not appear to be on the verge of movement. Voices could be heard emanating from its saloon.

“Angel, you said you knew the way!” 

“Well, I _do_ know the way!” Aziraphale fidgeted in the leather bench, then primly straightened and folded his hands in his lap. “It all just looks so _different_ from in here, my dear.”

Crowley groaned, and knocked his head repeatedly against the steering wheel.

* * *

Three days previous, in an armpit of a pub in London Soho, an angel and a demon were holding a clandestine rendezvous.

The angel leaned forward. He pressed his hands into the mysteriously sticky surface of the table and immediately thought better of it, quickly miracling them clean again with a blink. "I'm heading into Oxford next week. Blessing a new library, a few other errands."

"Right, a _library_ blessing. Heaven's orders, or is this one _pro bono_?" The demon smirked, and addressed himself to diminishing the level of liquid in the tankard in front of him.

Aziraphale sniffed. "It needs doing."

"Of course it does." Crowley smiled, slow and pointedly. "As it happens, I'm meant to be in Oxfordshire next week, too - Tad-- tad-somewhere. A tempting. In a convent."

"Ooh, nun-tempting! That was always one of your favorites."

"Nuns are _never_ as innocent as your lot want to believe." He smirked; Aziraphale frowned and made as though to kick him under the table, but there was no follow-through, as ever. 

"Nothing prurient, mind; just a demonic vision to set her on the path of Our Lord Sssatan." Crowley always hissed that name, somehow. Couldn't help it.

"Oh my," said Aziraphale, fidgeting back in the booth. "That sounds serious, I'm not entirely sure I should - "

"If it's not me - or, you - they'll send someone else. Early positioning for the End Times, sounds like."

"Oh my word, that's not any time soon, is it?"

"Nah, you know how long it takes my lot to get their ducks in a row. Probably another millennium. Anyway, flip you for it?"

Crowley's half crown was in the air before he'd finished speaking, but somehow instead of landing heads or tails it wound up propped on its end between two slats of the rough-hewn wooden table, just between Aziraphale's mug and his own.

"Angel," Crowley said slowly, eyes on the still-vibrating coin. "You didn't call it." He reached out to pick up the coin, ready to do it over. 

"No-oo." Aziraphale's hand came down on Crowley's wrist, stopping him mid-motion. "I - I didn't."

Crowley swallowed, wondering - is this it, then? The grand experiment, their Arrangement - was over, already? Bracing himself, he looked up.

Aziraphale's eyes were wide and uncertain, and it wasn't what Crowley had been afraid of, at all.

"I thought - this time, perhaps we could both go?" Aziraphale visibly steeled himself, and got the rest out in a single breath. "It’s not far, we could do it all in a day. You’ve been after me to experience your - your new Bent Lying thing. And on the Monday afternoon there's a concert at the Sheldonian, I know you had a hand in that,1 my dear, and perhaps we could - stay for the concert?" He glanced anxiously up at Crowley, then back down at the table. His hand twitched involuntarily atop Crowley's. "They - they're doing several of the Bach concertos, and a selection from Water Music, I believe.” 

Crowley was staring at the middle of the table, which, incidentally, still had their hands piled atop it like a pair of recently-netted starfish. “It’s a _Bentley_, angel. A car. You’ll - you’ll love it. Goes nice and fast.” 

Under cover of reaching once more for the coin, he let his free hand fall on top of Aziraphale’s on top of his, and just left it there for a moment. Not quite holding - just one hand, between two others, still. And he thought.

It wouldn't be the first time they'd attended such an event together. There'd been Shakespeare, for one, not to mention Sophocles, and more recently, the Ballet Russes. They'd traveled together, too, long and short distances, by foot, horse, boat, even train, and had shared a roof more than once, the Flood perhaps being the most memorable, if far from the only. But it had always sort of -- happened. They'd run into each other in town and human social obligations of politeness and courtesy would permit them to join one another for dinner, or to render assistance, or, on occasion, comfort, as appropriate. Their meetings under the terms of the Arrangement were of course planned, but clandestinely; Crowley had received word of tonight's rendezvous in a coded message in the _Morning Star_'s4 agony column as he sipped his coffee. There had always been - plausible deniability.

What they had not done, in nearly six millennia, was plan, in advance, to attend a ticketed event, together, for no other reason than that both of them were likely to enjoy it.

In a certain light, it could have been momentous. In another sense, it was probably inevitable. 

They could get into a lot of trouble for this.

But Aziraphale's hand was between his. Not _caught_, no; simply … resting. 

Now he thought about it, their random meetings had become rather more often and less random since he'd woken up from his nap, a decade or three back. 

The touching wasn't new, either. There was a sort of communication that happened, when their corporations met; a sense of _you are not alone; I am with you_ that resonated even in the midst of their most intractable arguments. Or at least, Crowley felt it; he'd had a suspicion that it was only a refraction of divinity through the perfect lens of Aziraphale, but over the centuries had come to believe that Aziraphale noticed it too. Else, why would they reach out towards each other, so often?

More often, this century. 

Blast it all, Aziraphale was _trying_ \- and Crowley would be damned - saved - he would be _upset with himself_ if he didn't do his best to meet the angel halfway, and more than.

No one was probably watching, anyway. 

It was _fine_. 

It didn't even have to be a thing.

"Yeah," said Crowley, slowly. "All right then."

There was a quiet, after that, a stillness, in the corner booth of the dirty, crowded pub at 8 PM on a Friday. Without quite knowing it, both angel and demon closed their eyes and breathed in, deeply, savoring, luxuriating in one single moment of rest. 

After an eternity or perhaps a second, Crowley sprung up, extracting himself, not neglecting to grab his half crown before Aziraphale could take it into his head to magic it out of somebody's orifice. “Well then, that’s settled,” he said, too brightly, and offered his arm. “Wine, angel?”

“Oooh, yes _please_.” Aziraphale rose and accepted the arm, glancing sidelong at his abandoned wine glass. "I've a _much_ better vintage back at the bookshop."

"Knew you would."

As Crowley pushed the door open, Aziraphale settled his tan bowler on his head and asked, "Ooh, Crowley, do you remember when we used to meet beside the Thames at Oxford, to feed the ducks? When was that, the 14th century?"

"Definitely not the 14th century."5

"We ought to make it a point to visit them, for old time's sake. I suppose there _are_ still ducks on the river."

"Angel, those ducks are even more continuous than the ones at St. James's Park." 8

Their words faded away into the lamp-lit fog of the London twilight, and they went on to have a lovely, late night in the back room of the bookshop, talking of their favorite composers and Crowley's burgeoning expertise with automobiles, and reminiscing about centuries past at Oxford.9 Crowley left around two, with a promise to pick the angel up at 9 (meaning 10) on Monday next, and they'd make a day of it.

* * *

Now here they were, hours outside of London, and _lost_. They’d been parked at an unmarked crossroad for ten minutes. Aziraphale was sure Oxford lay to the left, while Crowley was absolutely positive they’d taken a wrong turning five miles back, when Aziraphale had been _snooping_ in his glove compartment. (He’d only found the packet of Peace Babies Crowley had bought special for him, so it was fine, but it was the _principle_ of the thing, and had been very distracting.)10

“It looks exactly the same! You’re not even higher up! I know you’ve been this way in carriages, angel, and -- and on _horses_!”

“But the roads have changed, and-and you go so much faster, and I can’t tell -”

“I was only going thirty miles per hour! _That’s horse speed!_”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know why _I’m_ the one --”

At that moment, the Bentley shook in place as a great black beast of car rumbled past. Aziraphale steadied himself on the dashboard and just caught a glimpse of the couple in the other car - they’d the top down and seemed entirely caught up in one another, the gentleman with limp blond hair and a monocle, the lady with a wide smile even as she reached up to keep her hat from flying off, and both overflowing with _such_ joy -- 

“Why - why, they didn’t even stop at the -” he gasped out, then did a double take at the car that was now far ahead. "Wait, surely that's not - _Lord Peter Wimsey?_"

"Someone you know, Aziraphale? _Cutting us off?_" Crowley scowled, and threw the Bentley back into gear. 

"He's a well-known folio collector - snatched a first edition Dante from under my nose a few years back - surprised you don't know him, he keeps a flat in MayfAAAAAAIR - _CROWLEY!_"

Crowley had floored the accelerator, tires screaming as they peeled away from the crossroads in fast pursuit of the wayward Daimler. "No one cuts me off in traffic, and _especially_ not if they've been stealing from _you_!"

"He didn't precisely - it was an _auction_ \- look, Crowley, stop, what are you - "

The speedometer inched past 60, then past 65, engine roaring like the great beast11 it was. The gap began to close between the Bentley and the Daimler, and ahead, Aziraphale watched with trepidation as Lord Peter's companion turned around, then leaned in to whisper something to the driver. As the man himself glanced back, his blissful smile transformed to a wicked grin -- one that matched Crowley's own.

"Oh _no_," groaned Aziraphale, wide-eyed and horrified, scrambling again for a handhold as the Daimler put on a great burst of speed and leapt ahead. 

Crowley laughed with delight. "Oh, I think I like him!" The needle cleared 70, and Crowley swerved into the right lane to pass the Daimler. "He's lucky this road's so straight, really."

"Ngk," said Aziraphale. 

Now they were going 75, then 80, then drawing even with with Daimler, and beginning to pull ahead as the needle crept past 85. 

Crowley leaned over and waved, grinning. Lord Peter returned the grin with a rueful salute. Aziraphale and Harriet (for it was, of course, Harriet Vane on the bench next to Lord Peter Wimsey) exchanged deeply meaningful glances of horrified commiseration. 

As the Bentley left the Daimler in its dust - the speedometer had reached its maximum, well past 130, the smell of burning rubber in the air, and the Almighty only _knew_ how fast they were going12 \- Aziraphale applied himself once more to the task. “_CROWLEY, YOU ARE BREAKING THE LAWS OF PHYSICS!_ I don’t --"

At that moment, a muted _boom_ sounded from the road behind them, and a puff of black smoke was visible in the mirrors. 

"Ah," said Crowley with satisfaction as he finally (FINALLY) stepped on the brake. "That'll show him, I shouldn't wonder."

"Crowley, what did you _do_?"

"Do?" Crowley pulled down his tinted spectacles to peer at Aziraphale over the top. "Angel, it was just a bit of fun."

"Fun? FUN? Crowley --" Aziraphale pulled himself up to his full height, pinching his lips together. "Turn this car around, right now."

"What? No, come on, Aziraphale, I can't be seen to - to _render assistance_ \- " 

"It is our fault they're in trouble, and we are going to help. In any case, I am. If you aren't coming, let me out of this vehicle and I shall walk back. Right now, Crowley. Pull over."

"Oh - angel - nnggggk - fine, FINE, but you'll owe me one for this." He twisted the wheel, and in the midst of a beautiful 3-point turn, _Get Out and Get Under_ began playing on the Transistone13, which he ordinarily kept tuned to the BBC. 

Crowley growled, and switched off the music. "Oh, you will owe me a BIG one." 

"Yes, all right, come on."

* * *

"To get into a _race_, Peter, today of all days, honestly --" disgusted, Harriet Vane threw her hat to the ground and turned her back to Peter, crossing her arms as she stalked to the other side of the road. 

"I'm ever so sorry, darlin', I -" Lord Peter looked helplessly between the still idly smoking hood of Mrs Merdle and his distraught fiancée. "He - he did start it, after all, the other gentleman - "

"Of all the childish - ! And anyway _you_ cut him off at that traffic stop! And what if we'd been killed - if _you'd_ been killed?" Peter had always been self-deprecating and reckless, but to have it driven home so soon after their engagement was simply _beastly_. Harriet choked back the sob that threatened to escape from her throat -- or perhaps it would have been a scream of rage. She covered her mouth with her hand as she gazed, unseeing, across the fields, trying to still her tremors. 

"I - you're right. I am sorry, Harriet." She felt his hand, tentatively, at her elbow; not pulling her, but perhaps in hopes his apology would be heard, that he hadn't ruined it all. She hugged herself more tightly but didn't pull away. "It's only just crossed my mind that I've somethin' to live for beyond the whims of the Foreign Office, now. You did say it was time I grew up. I _will_ try. Can you forgive me?"

"Peter," Harriet sighed, still cross. She closed her eyes, briefly, praying for strength. She loved him, she was sure of it now, after these last days - this last _year_. But part of why she loved him was his inability to do anything by halves, whether it was bringing a murderer to justice, coaxing a symphonic etude from an antique spinet, or, indeed, relishing in his control over a powerful motor-car. Or, for that matter, loving her. Peter _would_ throw himself into things; and she began to understand that, now the two of them finally had an understanding, she was always, _always_ going to fear for him; especially considering his mysterious Foreign Office work and God only knew what was brewing in Europe. 

_Is it all worth it, even if we only have today?_ she asked herself. And, to her surprise, _yes_, she answered. _Oh, yes._

"Peter," Harriet said again, softer, and turned to his anxious, pale eyes, the sunlight hitting the planes of his dear face just so. "Oh, Peter." She reached for his cheek, and pulled him towards her. 

Peter kissed her left temple, then her right, and folded his arms around around her. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said, for a third time, into her hair. "I will try to reign in my worst instincts. Put it in the wedding vows, if you like."

Harriet gave a muffled laugh, and tightened her grip on his sides. "I know you better than that, darling; and you're forgiven for it, always. Please don't change for me, not a hair; I won't have it. Write _that_ into the vows."__

"Harriet," Peter said, helpless and awestruck; "Oh, _Harriet_!", and then they were kissing, passionately, and she - 

"Well!" a drawling voice interrupted. "Supreme performance from Bentley Motors Limited!"14

Harriet jumped back, blushing; to be caught necking on the roadside, like a pair of undergraduates! A tall, ginger-haired man in a dark suit was grinning knowingly as he unfolded himself from the driver's seat -- of, in fact, the very car that had nearly driven them off the road. She shuffled a bit closer again to Peter, rather nervously, and let one hand rest protectively at his elbow.

"Crowley," admonished the second man, who rounded the boot of the Bentley and came to a stop just a step in front of his companion. "We're here to apologize, both for the accident, and - and the interruption. And _render assistance_, if we can." This last was aimed, rather pointedly, at the taller fellow.

"Oh, Fell, I thought that was you I spotted." Harriet felt rather than saw Peter's tension melt into affability. "Excellent bus you have there."

"Oh it isn't _mine_," said Mr Fell, hurriedly. "It's Crowley's." At this, Crowley rocked back on his heels with a bright grin and a little wave. 

"In any case, Lord Peter, pleasure to - ah - run into you, despite the circumstances." Fell nodded. "I trust you continue to be most gratified by your di Lorenzo folio Dante, the 1481?"

"Erm - oh, that old thing," Peter smiled genially. "It's knockin' about somewhere, I suppose. And if I may enquire after old Fleetwhit's Caxton Confessio Amatis?"

Fell sniffed. "I peruse it daily." He pointedly ignored Crowley's side-eye. Harriet tilted her head, thoughtful. There was something about these two gentlemen than spoke of a very long acquaintance; and something that reminded her a bit, perhaps, of herself and Peter; or maybe of her friends Sylvia and Eiluned and their arrangement, whom, she realized with a jolt, she would soon be inviting to _her wedding_. The thought was absolutely surreal, and she dragged herself back to the present with some effort, and a tug from Peter's arm. Whatever it was about this pair, Peter at least seemed to know, and trust, one of them; Harriet let herself relax by degrees. 

"Excellent," Peter was saying affably, an amused twinkle in his eye. "I daresay it deserves you;" Fell opened his mouth to answer - 

"A-_hem_," interrupted Crowley. "Can we get on with this? _Helping?_ Thing?"

"Ah - yes." Fell cleared his throat. "Well, first things, we must get you off the road - I believe we passed [an inn](https://www.talkhouse-oxford.co.uk/gallery), not far back? We'll give you a tow to their car park and Crowley will set you right up."

"Towing, angel?" Crowley groaned. "With what, exactly?" 

"Why, the hitch on the rear bumper. And the rope in the boot." Fell blinked innocently at the other man.

Visibly bracing himself, Crowley glanced at the rear of his car, and Harriet followed his gaze. Yes, there was a hitch, and it seemed as though it had always been there, though she hadn't noticed it when they'd passed the Daimler a few minutes before. Crowley threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Fine! We're giving you a tow. That's what we're doing. But after that --"

"We'll make sure your vehicle is repaired. _Properly_." Fell smiled. Crowley turned on his heel with a groan and stomped off to fetch the rope that would, no doubt, be found in the Bentley's boot.

"I say, you needn't trouble yourselves --" Peter started. 

"Nonsense! It was all our fault, and we'll see you sorted." 

After a glance at Peter, Harriet allowed Mr Fell to usher her into the back seat of the Bentley, where Peter joined her after double-checking that the Daimler was well secured and set in neutral gear. He spared her a smile as he slid in behind the driver's seat. "Kind of them to give us a hand and all."

"Mmm," Harriet agreed, brushing a nonexistent speck from the shoulder of his driving coat, but did not have a chance to say more before Crowley and Fell joined them on the front bench, and the great Bentley rumbled into life. 

Harriet only realized later that her hat had been on the bench beside her, though she had no memory at all of retrieving it from the road.

* * *

Once parked outside the inn and disgorged from the Bentley, Aziraphale clapped his hands.

"Well! I believe these two gentlemen have things in good order here." He turned and offered his arm to Harriet, smiling pleasantly.

Harriet smiled genially back, and placed her hand at his elbow with not a single glance Peter's way. "Would you care to escort me inside for some tea and cakes, Mr Fell?"

"My dear, I would be delighted." The pair turned to cross the road towards the inn's front door. "Come and find us when you've finished, won't you?" Aziraphale tossed over his shoulder.

Identical looks of dismay followed the angel and the lady as they disappeared into the cozy darkness of the inn. 

"I'm not sure what I've done to deserve this," Crowley muttered as he untied the rope from between the two cars.

"I suppose we must take our lumps in good humor," said Peter good-naturedly. "By the by, I must compliment you again on the Bentley - she really is a fine bus."

"Mmm. Yeah. Had it from new."

"Nine years now, eh? Seems to be keeping well." Wimsey discarded his driving coat across the door of the Daimler and began nonchalantly rolling up his sleeves, as though vehicular repair were something he undertook daily.

"Sure. Fits me like a glove." Crowley let the Bentley's boot drop with a heavy _thud_. 

"I say, it's very good of you to help out with this." 

With a long-suffering glance hellward, Crowley doffed his hat, tossed it and his blazer across the Daimler's rear bench, and began removing his cufflinks.15

"Yep, that's right, expert automobile mechanic _extra-ordinaire_, always _available_ to pitch in." He glared towards the inn, but it was wasted on Aziraphale, who by now was gallantly holding the inn's back door open for Harriet as she wound her way through the beer garden. 

"I'm a fair hand at it myself," Wimsey said as he popped the cover off the Daimler's bonnet. He waved his hand to clear the last bit of smoke. "Ordinarily have my man around to lend a hand with these sorts of things, you know, only we sent him ahead on his own this afternoon. In Harriet's car, that is."

"Right." Crowley didn't care. "D'you have a tool box in this junker?"

"Oh, yes, it's just in the well, I'll get it. And there's no call to be rude, old chap - don't listen to him, Mrs Merdle."

"Mrs Merdle," Crowley scoffed. "Call that a name for a car?" He peered into the inner workings of the vehicle with an air of, he hoped, utter competence. The Daimler Double-Six was a lovely car, nothing on his Bentley of course, but similar enough that he'd likely get it sorted out quick.

"Right," he muttered to himself, "right, _double_-six, two magnetos, but where does one keep a gear box, rustbucket like this ..?"

When no answer was forthcoming, Crowley looked up to find his companion gazing doe-eyed at Harriet, and had only a second of warning before the unmistakable frisson of a near-miss with a _blessing_ tickled its way down his spine.16

Crowley gritted his teeth, shook it off, cursed Aziraphale under his breath, and glared at Wimsey's monocle, which promptly separated from its chain and rolled beneath the car. He refused to be held accountable if it was scratched in the process. "Oi, a hand here??"

Wimsey blinked rapidly, the blush fading from his face. "Right-o, I was just fetching the toolbox - there we are - sorry, chap, but you know how it is - "

"_Love_ \- eugh," Crowley shuddered, who did indeed know how it was, from having witnessed it, encouraged it, and/or thwarted it far too many times over the past six millennia. "Can't abide it. _Especially_ young love."

Crowley glared balefully at the engine. He'd probably have to get under the car to access the gear box. He heaved a sigh. There'd be gravel holes ripped in his shirt, not to mention oil and petrol and all manner of other - unmentionables. The Bentley never needed _any_ of that blessed - blessed _maintenance_ (primarily because he expected it not to, but also because he really did put some considerable effort into taking care of his car). 

Eternal damnation on the angel anyway for making him do this the hard way. Why had he even listened to Aziraphale? If hell ever found out that he'd been _doing an angel's bidding_ \- nearly getting _blessed_ \- it wasn't even as if this sort of thing was covered by their own separate Arrangement - 

"Harriet and I aren't exactly young lovers," Wimsey remarked mildly, squatting to help Crowley manoeuver himself under the car. "Not young; though I certainly am a fool, right enough."

"Oh, young, foolish, freshly betrothed, it's all the same." Once he was settled underneath, Crowley spotted half of the problem right away. Vindictively and with _intent_, he miracled a cog on the second gear back into existence and smoothed a bend out of one of the pistons. It made him feel significantly better. He took back his wish of eternal damnation upon Aziraphale, somewhat sheepishly, and held his hand out from beneath the car to receive a spanner in exchange for one not-at-all-scratched monocle. Best make it look good.

He added, _sotto voce_ to the Daimler's undercarriage, blowing a wayward curl out of the way of his tinted spectacles, "give it a few thousand years, then come talk to me."

"Hmm," Peter mused. "The way I see it, '_Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clyme; Nor hours, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time_' -- and all that." 

"Eh," sniffed Crowley. He wrenched himself out from under the car and hauled himself upward, only to squint authoritatively into the engine block again. "_Donne._ Pretending he knew anything at all about the rags of time. And a bit harsh on women, that one, especially ones with a mind of their own." He nodded in Harriet's direction. "Surprised you go in for it."

Wimsey hummed, tapping his finger along the edge of the chassis. "He would not be the first or only man," he uttered quietly, "to wrestle against the sins and temptations of the flesh."

"Hah, right," said Crowley. He found a likely looking bolt to twist and hoped it looked like he was doing something useful, while the second carburetor quietly fitted itself back into place and the spark plug reignited its spark. "Now there was a man who invented all of his own sins and promptly committed each and every one of them."

"Nonetheless," said Peter mildly, "I've found him to be a sympathetic companion in my hour of need. As for love," he said, peering contemplatively across the street and over the wall towards Harriet and Aziraphale, who were well settled and deep in conversation in the garden, "there's something to be said for finding peace in the balance of opposing forces, what?"

Crowley's head shot up under the hood and petrol splattered wetly across both of his forearms. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said, enunciating each word very clearly. He plucked Wimsey's smartly pressed pocket square from the blazer that was folded over the Daimler's door and used it to wipe off his arms.

"My mistake." Wimsey's eyes twinkled, and his attention returned to the engine block. "Say, what are you doing with the petrol tank, there - not cracked, is it?"

"Erm, no," said Crowley guiltily, and closed the hood. "Good as new. Give her a whirl."

* * *

“I understand congratulations are in order, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said, placing the tray of tea and pastries on the little glass-topped table between the rocker and the wicker chaise, where Harriet had settled herself. 

“Oh - yes, thank you.” Harriet began to pour out the tea as Aziraphale leaned back into the rocker, giving himself a happy little swing. “It still doesn’t seem quite real, we only just - well, it only just happened yesterday.”

There was such a fond, pensive look in her eyes as she gazed out over the stone wall to the car park, where Crowley and Wimsey were -- not exactly arguing, but pointing emphatically at something beyond the now open bonnet of the Daimler. Aziraphale smiled to see it; two people so much in love, it made his heart sing, every time.

He took a sip of tea, winced, then added a splash of milk and offered some to Harriet, who shook her head. “How did you two meet, if I may ask?”

“Oh, Peter and me -- it feels as though we’ve known each other forever." Harriet tilted her head to the side and looked at Aziraphale reflectively. “It was six years ago, really. He helped me with - well, some trouble.” She smiled ruefully. “He asked me to marry him on the spot, but I couldn’t. I just - I _couldn’t_. For six years, he asked me and I couldn’t.”

“Forever,” Aziraphale repeated, softly. He supposed six years could be forever, to a human. He blinked rapidly and added two sugars to his tea. “Well, it seems to have all worked out for you, in the end?”

“Oh, yes,” Harriet said, looking radiant; something in the spot of colour in her cheeks and the way the sun put a really very bright sparkle in her eyes. “Oh yes. But, really, we must have inconvenienced you terribly, you and your - friend?”

“Us? Oh.” Aziraphale’s head came up and he felt, to his consternation, a bit of warmth rise to his cheeks. “We - that is, Crowley and I - we’ve been - I suppose - friends, that is - yes, friends - for - well, for simply - simply _ages_.” He coughed. “And well, you know, he does like to drive. I do apologize, for -- for that.”

“Hush. Nonsense. Peter can’t resist a challenge, especially on wheels. And he was at fault in the first place, we shouldn’t ought to have gone round you like that.” Harriet nibbled on a pink-frosted biscuit, peering over at Aziraphale. He was quite sure he'd somehow given her the wrong impression, about himself and Crowley, but - heavens, this was always happening, and he was never quite sure in the aftermath just what he'd done to make people think so! It wasn't bad, necessarily, only it wasn't _real_, and -- but Harriet was speaking again. 

“Do you know,” she continued, “even with all that, I somehow always knew we’d make it here, someday. Engaged. Imagine that.” Harriet’s eyes were distant as she looked into her teacup, her knuckles white where she gripped the porcelain. She gave a small, not at all delicate laugh. “That is, if neither of us managed to muck it up first.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale set his tea down and reached for one of the miniature blueberry scones. They really _did_ make the best sweets out here in the countryside,17 even if the tea left something to be desired. 

“A year ago I thought I’d put him off for good. It made me -- very melancholy, and I knew, somehow, without knowing, that if he ever asked again, I’d -- well, I’d simply fall. I’d lose myself. And so I did, but it’s a _wonder_.” Harriet smiled, her eyes lingering on Peter’s golden head as it emerged from behind the bonnet of the Daimler. “But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

Aziraphale bit his lip as he followed the line of her gaze. Crowley was hidden from his mortal sight, at this angle; but he felt poised on the cusp of something, as though Harriet's words were reaching out to a kindred part of himself, a part that might grow and grow, beyond the bounds of his corporation if he let it. Six years had nothing on six thousand, but he wanted - he wanted - he wanted to hear the rest of this woman's story. 

"Nonsense, my dear - I'm honoured that you would share." He stretched out his hand to pat Harriet's, and felt the sun's rays warm the back of it. With his angelic senses, he reached out for the bond that connected Harriet and Wimsey - and oh it was _so_ strong already, but he bolstered it with a quick blessing. "I’m sure you’ll have a long and -- and _blessed_ marriage, my dear. You do seem so very happy together.”

Harriet turned pink, and shifted a bit in her seat - perhaps he'd overdone it. But her eyes were shining as she gazed out over the wall. Wimsey’s head came up, and their eyes met; he smiled one of the more radiant smiles of Aziraphale's memory, and the most tender look was on his face -- 

Aziraphale felt immediately like an intruder, though he'd precipitated this moment in the first place. He twisted his hands in his lap and looked away, only to have his attention called back by the sound of Crowley's voice, indignant: “Oi, a hand here please??” 

Wimsey blushed, winked, and ducked out of sight again. Harriet smiled fondly; and though he couldn't see it, the look on Aziraphale's face was nearly its exact twin. 

_Sorry for the distraction, my dear_, Aziraphale thought towards Crowley without a hint of remorse. He turned his smile back on Harriet, and encouraged her to continue.

"When we met, Peter was my savior," Harriet said softly, "and not a welcome one. I didn't want to be the sort of woman who needs a white knight, and I resented that I _did_ need it. And later, we weren't exactly friends, but we saw each other, and helped each other, and fit well together, more easily than I was comfortable admitting." She laughed. "I almost saw him as an adversary of sorts, one around whom I must always be on my guard, lest I lose hold on everything I believed to be true in the world."

"What happened," Aziraphale asked, heart in his throat. "What changed?" He could not seem to stop his hands from fidgeting in his lap. He took up his tea again, and surreptitiously warmed both their cups.

“He came up to Oxford,” Harriet said, with awe in her voice, even now, that in the end it had been only as easy as that. “Just as I happened to be in residence at Shrewsbury - my old college. I suppose Oxford was neutral ground, for us," she mused. 

Harriet looked out over the stone wall, but it was clear that she wasn't seeing the gravel car park, and green pastures beyond; in her mind she was somewhere else, perhaps, Aziraphale thought, floating on the Thames, with Wimsey asleep at her side. "It was a place that had belonged to both of us, but separately. We were both our purest selves, with the weight of the past set aside. And one day I looked at him and saw, not a savior, or an adversary. Just a man, with a body and a soul, and a past, and a future. I finally felt that I knew him, and was sure that he knew me -- we saw each other entire; and there was nothing else for it but to face straight-on the thing that had already happened." She smiled, and gave a small huff of laughter. 

"Love, I suppose; but in practical terms it was only that parting from him again had become unthinkable. I hadn't understood, before, that I could want it - that future, with him. That I really could choose it, if I wanted, without losing any of myself at all. I felt so -- so _free_. And what had seemed so impossible became -- inevitable."

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale whispered. He found himself unable to look away from the snakeskin brogues scrabbling for purchase on the gravel as Crowley wriggled his way beneath the Daimler, just visible through the open gate in the garden wall. It must be very nice, he thought. To have choices, and to make one. To be free to want to. 

Harriet tilted her head, and looked suddenly, sharply at Aziraphale. "I hadn't put it in these words before, but that's exactly what happened. We let everything else go, at Oxford, and what was left was only - us. Free at last. It wasn't anything like a surrender, but only a promise to delight in provoking each other into eternity."

"I do envy you," Aziraphale heard himself say it, without conscious thought, softly as a breath through his lips. Colouring, he tore his gaze back to Harriet and saw only kind understanding in her eyes. 

"The thing is," Harriet said kindly, keeping Aziraphale's gaze. "If it hadn't happened then, I don't believe it would have happened at all. I'd begun to take it for granted, that Peter would always be circling around me, but if I'd denied him, then and there -- I'm certain that would have been the end of it."

Aziraphale could only bear to meet Harriet's eyes for a few moments before ripping his gaze back to the car park. He felt as though this clever woman could see straight through to the depths of his soul, somehow. "And what would you have done, then?" he whispered.

"Well, I had thought of joining the faculty at Shrewsbury, if they'd have me. Do some writing, start to publish nonfiction. I get along with books. I think I should have been content."

"But not - " Aziraphale's throat closed. He could see Crowley's legs, through the gate, where the leg of his trousers had rucked up just a bit, exposing a line of skin above the top of a red silk stocking. As he watched, Wimsey crouched alongside, blocking his view.

"No," Harriet said, and Aziraphale could still feel her gaze, piercing into him. "I wouldn't have been happy. Not as I am today."

Aziraphale closed his eyes, cleared his throat, and brought his wandering thoughts back to the matter at hand. Harriet was happy, because she and Wimsey had met at -- "Yes. Well. Indeed. Oxford, yes. I’ve always felt there was something -- well, a bit _holy_ about Oxford. I suppose that's a blasphemy, but when I first saw it, it was only a village, and I just knew it would - well.” He caught himself, then chuckled. “Only don’t tell Crowley I called it holy. We were on our way there, you know, for the concert at the Sheldonian.”

Harried gaze had dropped, and she bent her head to sip at her tea, and just like that the moment was over and Aziraphale could breathe again, though of course he never strictly _needed_ to. 

“Well, you were headed the wrong way.”

“Yes, we’d rather gathered that.”

“That's exactly what I mean about Oxford, though," Harriet mused. "A sort of secular divinity, if that's possible, speaking of blasphemy. I’ve felt that exactly. _That still center where the spinning world sleeps on its axis..._"

"That's beautiful; is it yours?"

"Mm," Harriet confirmed. The two sat in companionable silence for a moment, Aziraphale’s chair creaking as he rocked back and forth. The leaves of an oak tree rustled in the breeze, which brought the twitter of a nightingale18 to the quiet of the garden. And the bickering. 

“My good man, you simply can’t - that doesn’t go _here_, it goes - “

“I know what I’m doing!”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling both indulgent and apologetic, and also, somehow, extraordinarily melancholy. “Crowley’s very interested in cars these days. He’s really learned quite a lot, caring for the Bentley.”

“Peter’s always been a bit of a speed demon. It terrifies me how fast he goes. I’m not sure how often he’s - well, _repaired_ one, though.”

"Yes, I - know quite what you mean about the speed." Aziraphale's eyes went soft and distant as he felt the metaphysical effects of Crowley's rescinded curse.19

"But my dear!" Aziraphale recollected himself. "You must be so excited about the wedding. Have you a date yet? Are you ready to be Lady Peter?"

"No, I - I think I shall be taking advice from Peter's mother on rather all of those points, from the wedding date and décor to the finer points of Ladyship," Harriet laughed, turning slightly pink. "I never wanted any of it, and I'm rather out of my depth."

"It sounds as though you'll have excellent help, if dear Honoria is as I remember her."

"Ah - you know the Dowager Duchess?"

Aziraphale waved this away. "Oh, it was a long time ago, I'm sure she's forgotten me.20 Will the two of you live in London, then?"

“Well, I expect so, but - I - I haven’t even mentioned this to Peter yet -- but there’s a house I’ve always fancied, in the village where I was born. Not far from here, just in Hertfordshire." Harriet blushed and glanced away, hands tightening around her teacup. "It’s really more of a cottage, compared to what Peter’s used to. I’d like to get away from it all, have a place that’s quiet, for -- for us.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said, softly. He thought of his bookshop, all the dear, _dear_ fellows at his gentlemen’s club, the new Parthenon exhibit under construction at the British Museum, the bakery down the street from Crowley's flat .. there was so much yet to do in London. But then, he’d had a cottage by the sea, a few times -- Greece, once? Or perhaps Edo, yes, that was it. Cherry blossoms and rice wine, a little rock garden with a temple, and Crowley’d -- well. It had been almost like peace, for a few days. Perhaps - perhaps someday … “Yes,” he repeated. “That sounds _lovely_.”

With a _bang_, the hood of the Daimler resettled itself around the engine block. The pair watched from the garden as Crowley reclaimed his hat and coat, and Wimsey started the engine to put Mrs Merdle, very briefly, through her paces.

"That was quicker than I expected," said Harriet, rising from her seat as Crowley and Wimsey made their way through the gate and across the garden towards their respective companions. 

"Perhaps the damage wasn't as dire as it seemed," Aziraphale speculated. He busied himself pouring two more cups of tea. He'd tried to insist that Crowley fix things the human way, but wouldn't begrudge him a few miracles; it was rather getting on, and they had _plans_.

* * *

Crowley had his arms crossed, and was tapping his foot. It was long past time they got going, now that Wimsey had pointed him in the right direction for Oxford. But _of course_ Aziraphale had drawn their new acquaintances into a detailed conversation that Crowley really couldn't give a toss about. He glared at the tea that Aziraphale kept trying to offer him, and finally took it just to stop him doing that thing with his eyes. 

"Oxford men, are you?" Wimsey was saying as his hand hovered indecisively over the tray of biscuits. "Which college?"

"Oh - well, I was with the Blackfriars, you know - "

Wimsey made an interested noise. "Oh, were you on Father Bede's committee, then?"

"I - well, that is - " 

At the lost look on Aziraphale's face, Crowley stepped in, hissing. "He means he was at _Merton_."21

"Right! Ah-hah, yes. Merton! Excellent college," Aziraphale coloured slightly, and rubbed his hands along his sleeves. "But - but Blackfriars has a - fantastic library! I, ah, took an interest in the discussions about their reinstatement."

"Ah, yes, I didn't take you for a priest, somehow." Wimsey winked genially. "I'm a Balliol man myself."

"Oh, Balliol! I have very good memories of their Senior Common Room, from a very long time ago," Aziraphale beamed at Wimsey, and then at Crowley, who made a face at him.22 "And dear Harriet is Shrewsbury," said Aziraphale, still beaming.

"Yes," agreed Harriet, with some gratification. It was rare, still, to meet men so pleased with the idea of a women's college. "Talking of libraries, they've recently dedicated the new one."

"Oh, _yes_, I was so pleased to read about - "

"Speaking of which," interrupted Crowley. "Angel, don't we have somewhere to be?" Crowley offered his hand (any remaining grease entirely miracled away) and Aziraphale used it to pull himself up, more gracefully than should have been possible. 

"Ah, yes, you're right, we must be - delightful to meet you both - whatever have I done with my hat?"

Crowley handed him his tan felt derby, and expansively gestured in the direction of the gate. Aziraphale snatched the hat from his fingers and turned to go.

"Right-ho," said Wimsey genially. He leaned his stick against Aziraphale's vacated rocker and made as though to sit beside Harriet, then pivoted back. "Oh, I say, Fell -" 

Aziraphale turned. "Yes?"

"You're welcome to pop round the flat, you know, to have a look at the Florence Dante and the rest of the folios. I've also another Caxton you may be interested in, 1489 Aymon, the colophon an' all. I'll leave word with the staff that you're to be let up to the library if I'm not in."

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, looking like a -- whatever it is that gets caught in headlamps. "Why -- why, that's _most_ kind of you."

A pause. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his tinted spectacles; he didn't like the thought of someone other than the angel nosing around the bookshop, either, but _honestly_, if Aziraphale was going to be rude he could at least _try_ to be subtle about it. Crowley elbowed him in the ribs.

"And of course you must visit the bookshop when next you're in town." Aziraphale let it all out in one breath, as though the words were being dragged forcibly from his body. Crowley nodded, trying once again to nudge the angel towards the car, to no avail.

"And Harriet, my dear girl," Aziraphale bowed deeply and, taking her hand, kissed the back of it. "I'd be most obliged if you brought round a copy of your latest offering."

"I shall indeed, signed and all." Smiling, Harriet reclaimed her hand, which found its way to the crook of Peter's arm. "It's the least I can do in thanks."

"Oh, no need --" 

Crowley tugged on Aziraphale's arm in yet another effort to forestall _yet another_ round of this nonsense. 

Wimsey inclined his head to the side and nodded at his erstwhile co-mechanic, smiling genially as though reading every line of his impatience to be gone. "Of course, the invitation extends to you as well, Mr Crowley - I understand we're neighbors in Mayfair, after all?"

Crowley's nose wrinkled in disdain. "Do I look like I read _folios_?" 

Wimsey, Aziraphale, and Harriet turned as one to take in Crowley's dark grey flannel suit with elevated waistline, matching single-breasted waistcoat, blood-red silk ascot and pocket square, complemented by a dark Homburg, driving gloves, and snakeskin brogues. Three eyebrows rose in unison.

"Well," started Aziraphale dubiously, "you don't look like you _don't_ \--"

"Shut up, all of you. Come _on_, angel, we'll be late." Crowley turned and began striding towards the Bentley, with rather more intent than his usual saunter. 

"Well," said Aziraphale, turning to follow. "My most sincere felicitations upon your impending nuptials, and - " one eyebrow and the side of his mouth crooked upwards - "do mind how you go."

* * *

"What an odd pair," Harriet mused as the Bentley, with a great roar, leapt away south in the direction of Oxford. 

"Very interestin' indeed," said Peter thoughtfully. "I think I shall make a point to drop in on Fell's shop." He plopped down into the rocker recently abandoned by Aziraphale and, picking up one of the blueberry scones, took an experimental bite. 

"Detecting, Peter?"

"Well, no; just an odd feeling that something's more than it seems. The old instincts kicking in. I don't really suspect them of anything more nefarious then, well -" he laughed. "Running us off the road."

"They make me feel as though we've had a very close call. And I don't mean with the car, Peter."

"Ah, yes. I got that impression as well." The look Peter turned on her was layered with meaning, and she felt, for a moment, a yawning void, as though she'd spent millennia without a single other soul who understood. She reached out for his hand and gripped it, tight, inexpressibly glad that she could, now.

Peter cleared his throat. "Talking of the car, do you know, from that sound when she blew, I was sure we'd stripped a gear? Fixing it takes, at the very least, a mail-order and two weeks cooling your heels."

"But the car is running, now?" 

"Oh, yes, purring like a kitten. Must have been mistaken, I suppose. But we'll make it to Denver in one piece." He looked away, fingers of his free hand drumming restlessly on the table. "Assumin' you're still eager to meet the _familia_."

Unaccountably charmed, Harriet reached out and stilled his fingers with her own. "Peter. I answered you in full knowledge of the consequences. I won't suddenly dash away, or alter my convictions. And after today, I -- I'm so grateful you did ask me, one last time." Especially, she thought, after her conversation with Mr Fell. It had made her want to hold Peter close and never, ever let go. She swallowed, and smiled. "And anyway, for a long while now I've desired little more than an introduction to your mother."

Peter closed his eyes and took Harriet's hands between both of his. His ever-constant Harriet - ! He ought to know better than to doubt her, after all; her firmness in her own convictions was one of many, _many_ reasons he'd loved her from the moment he read her name in the papers. Peter made a motion as though to kiss her hand, then recalled their relative exposure in the open garden, where the staff at the inn might happen upon them any moment. 

"Harriet, I - thank you. _Thank_ you." 

They sat with their heads together, bowed over their hands, for a long moment before Peter looked up and moved to rise. "Shall we leave this garden of innocence, then, _domina_? Cast ourselves out upon the seas of knowledge and illumination? There, where unknown creatures lurk - "

"Serpents, or angels?"23

"Both, perhaps; and even, I have heard tell, mothers-in-law. Musn't keep _mater_ waiting any longer to know the light of my life, dove of my heart, she who soothes the savage beast - "

"Peter!" Laughing, Harriet stood, and pulled her darling fiancé up behind her. She spared one final thought for their new acquaintances, hoping they might, someday, find the happiness she'd managed to blunder into in spite of herself. "Let's go, then. Only, my dear savage beast, please do slow it down a bit. Let's not have another unexpected delay."

"Certainly," Peter opened the gate for his lady and swept her out onto the road. "Not a whit above 50 em pee aitch."

"Peter…"

"Did I say fifty? I meant thirty-five." 

Lord Peter Wimsey slid behind the wheel of the Daimler and turned to face his lady on the bench beside him. "My dearest," he said. 

"Yes, Peter?"

"How I do love you."

Harriet turned her head to meet Peter's gaze, so open and true in the dear face. "I know, love," she said, and how good, how freeing it felt to say so, without fear that she would lose herself, knowing Peter would find her. She reached her hand to caress his cheek. "Dear heart. Peter. My love."

It was hours too late for the luncheon rush and early yet for supper; the small car park across the road from the inn's beer garden was empty but for the great black (now restored) Daimler. Which was lucky, else anyone who happened by might have seen something rather indiscreet.

* * *

"Mystery novels, Aziraphale?" Having seen Aziraphale into the passenger side, Crowley slid himself behind the wheel of the Bentley with a contented sigh and a pat of welcome to the dashboard. "Never pegged you for the detective story type. More of a Regency romance air about you, really."

"They're fun," Aziraphale stated authoritatively as he settled himself into the bench with a little wiggle. "And most entertaining, Miss Vane's in particular."

"Fun," Crowley scoffed as he threw the car into reverse. "Your ideas of _fun_ \- "

"Yes, what about it? My idea of 'fun' also includes a concert performance, and an afternoon drive in the countryside. Reasonable speeds this time, if you _don't_ mind."

"Eugh," Crowley groaned halfheartedly, but as he was providing both the method and opportunity for said fun, couldn't find a way to object exactly. 

Crowley made to turn right out of the car park, then stopped with his foot on the brake. “I know what you did back there, angel, by the way.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, my dear boy?” Aziraphale blinked innocently.

“That blessing! You _blessed_ them, I could feel it.” He shuddered and stuck out his tongue, like trying to rid himself of an accidental bite into a bad tomato. “Blech, I think there's still some of it _on_ me. Won't be able to show my face in Hell for months, not till the stench wears off.”

“Well -- I’m sorry, my dear, but they _are_ newly engaged to be - “

“Yeah, I know, whatever, just don’t imagine you got away with it.” Crowley grinned, and pulled out with a screech, swinging the car around into the road. 

Aziraphale scrambled at the roof in self-preservation. “Oh no, oh -- what did you _do_ to them?”

“They’ll get two miles down the road and run out of petrol. They’ll have to walk, and be back at this inn within the hour.” He smirked, eyebrows waggling.

“Oh, must you? And we’d already ruined their day --!”

“And, if they’re very lucky, there’ll even be a room free for the night.”

“Oh -- _oh_. Oh, Crowley -” Aziraphale’s dismayed moue softened to a tender smile, just as Crowley’s smirk turned to a frown, with perhaps even a glare behind those dark spectacles, arms tightening just noticeably as he gripped the wheel. 

“Shut it. It’s _vexing_, running out of petrol. Makes one all cranky and unpleasant to be around.”24

“My _dear_,” Aziraphale breathed, and his hand hung in the air between them, suspended for a moment in a web of ineffability, neither daring to move forward or look away.

“Augh!!” Aziraphale felt himself pushed up against the door, once again grappling along the ceiling for any kind of handhold as Crowley careened them back onto the main road that they'd somehow managed to lose that morning, at what surely must have been upwards of ninety miles per hour. “Crowley, slow _down!_ You’ll get us both discorporated!”

“Nah.” Nonchalantly, Crowley shifted the car into high gear and floored the accelerator, pointing them down the level stretch of road that this time really _did_ lead to Oxford. He shrugged and smiled with half of his mouth, on the right side, where Aziraphale couldn’t see. “Wouldn’t want to miss the concertos, after all.”

Aziraphale put his hand on heart and closed his eyes, and as he worked to get his breathing back under control, Crowley spared a look at him out of the corner of his eye. The sun was pouring through the window, bathing the angel in light. The trees that lined the verge of the road blurred into a mess of green and brown behind him. Crowley, momentarily allowing himself to feel something akin to pity, eased up on the gas until the trees looked like trees again.

"Anyway, looked like you had quite the talk with the lady, there," Crowley said, by way of breaking the silence. "Did she regale you with Donne, too?"

"Why, no," Aziraphale blinked his eyes open. "We had a lovely conversation about Oxford, and the liberation of true love, once realized."

Crowley grimaced, biting his tongue again as though to wipe off a bad taste. "Better you than me. Anyway, your pal Wimsey's got a bit of an obsession."

"He's not my 'pal,'" Aziraphale said primly. "I, ah, take it you're not a fan of Donne, then?"

"N-neh," Crowley wrinkled his nose and turned away, under cover of checking ostentatiously for oncoming traffic. 

"Crowley, you quite astonish me! I had understood the two of you to be rather intimate friends, around the turn of the 17th century."

"Oh, well, that," Crowley said. "Easiest temptation in history, practically falling all over himself to get to Hell, but it wears on one after a while. Original sin this, fall-of-man that, ragging on Eve. Eve! Of all people. And then _your_ lot got to him, in the end, somehow. I never understood that one."

"Ah," murmured Aziraphale, almost to himself. "Yes, of course … _Would God make a law, and would not have it kept? Or can his creatures will, cross his? ... Who sinned? 'Twas not forbidden to the snake; yet the worm and she, and he, and we endure for it._ Rather pointed questions, those."

"Aziraphale, _please_," said Crowley. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw tight. 

Aziraphale stopped. He hadn't thought this nerve was so raw, still, had only meant to tease, as he had a thousand times over the centuries. He was still learning to speak Crowley's language, he thought, and likely always would be. It was at the same time a delight - so much yet to learn! - and a sharp hurt, that he could cause such pain without the slightest of intention. 

"I've overstepped." Aziraphale twisted his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry, my dear. I - "

"And _don't apologize_!" Crowley snarled. "Honestly, angel, how many times? For Ssatan's sake, if my lot got wind of that - not to mention _yours_ \- ngk." His voice trailed off in a choke.

Aziraphale nodded. "You're right, of course. I - " he swallowed his reflexive apology, and looked out the window again. "Oh, look, it's Magdalen tower! We're nearly there. We weren't so far off after all."

"Good," said Crowley shortly, but he sounded rather less strangled. The tension drained slowly out of the atmosphere in the car as Crowley turned into the high street, maneuvering along the narrow, cobbled streets lined with ancient and storied edifices, cathedrals to God and knowledge both. Or perhaps it was Aziraphale's imagination. But Miss Vane had quite the right of it, he thought; there was something in Oxford that made it seem a world apart, as though everyday mundane cares vanished within a bubble of scholarly fellowship, in which only wholesome things could ever be permitted to happen.25 Only a part of that could be down to the numerous blessings he himself had performed at the colleges, over the centuries (and some, indeed, had been Crowley's). He wondered if Crowley felt it at all. 

The car pulled up on Broad Street directly in front of the Sheldonian, half on the pavement in a zone clearly marked "No Stopping." Aziraphale was about to comment on this when he noticed Crowley's uncharacteristic stillness. The demon's head was resting on the steering wheel, between his hands, his breathing shallow.

"I say, Crowley, are you quite all - "

"_Which just so much courts thee_," Crowley began, almost in a whisper. His head turned, but Aizraphale could tell that his eyes were closed behind his dark spectacles, as though he wanted to look at Aziraphale but couldn't quite bring himself to do so. "_As thou dost it, let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with me, why ….?_"

Aziraphale felt the strings of his heart pull taut. _I believe he _does_ feel it, something true, and something _real. He made a small humming noise, and Crowley let out a breath and turned his head back to center, prelude to rising and leaving the sanctuary of the Bentley's saloon. Aziraphale let a tentative, trembling hand hover above Crowley's shoulder, touching just enough to stop his movement. 

Crowley's breath hitched, caught, stilled, his eyes still closed. 

Aziraphale looked. 

Crowley had had this corporation, or one very similar to it, for several millennia. Aziraphale knew it, almost as well as he knew his own. The long line of neck above the spine with its few extra vertebrae. The brand just before the delicate shell of his ear; a mark of Hell's claim, but also a reminder of all those things that made Crowley so purely _himself_, and always had. The delicate curls, peeking out from beneath the hat just at the temples and nape of the neck; Aziraphale had never, in six thousand years and as many languages, found the right word to describe their colour.

The hint of lines, at the corners of the mouth and eyes, issued with the corporation but deepened through laughter, and delighted cleverness, and pain. 

It came to Aziraphale, very suddenly, that Crowley was extraordinarily tired. No, he was _exhausted_. Aziraphale had seen this side of him before, but only rarely. It wasn't his corporation, needing sleep, though Aziraphale was familiar with that, too; this was true spiritual exhaustion, as though weighed down by centuries of Hell's demands, by questions to which there could never be an answer. Once in a very long while, Crowley laid those burdens down, and allowed Aziraphale to _see_.

It was the most precious gift Aziraphale had been given in his very long life. 

Aziraphale felt profound relief in Crowley's presence, too,26 but he wasn't entirely sure that Crowley had ever noticed - that he had ever _allowed_ Crowley to --

He had _missed_ Crowley while he'd spent so many years asleep, at the end of the last century. Missed him in a way that it simply wouldn't do to examine too deeply. Missed his arguments, his little temptations of food and drink, his voice, his touch. His _kindness_ and the effortless way they knew each other's thoughts and preferences and - and fears, and sorrows. And histories. Their Arrangement, and the shadow _understanding_ beneath it, the one that was entirely and forever unspoken.

Aziraphale had told himself that after Crowley woke up, they would not go so long again without a word to each other; and he had, very deliberately, not told himself any more than that.

He had taken eternity for granted, an eternity of Crowley being _there_, somewhere in orbit around him. He began to see that it wasn't, necessarily, inevitable. That it might end. Aziraphale began to suspect that he did, after all, have a choice in this; and to understand that he might, one day, perhaps even _this day_, need to choose. And that there was really quite a lot that he stood to lose.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale finished the verse Crowley had begun. He tried to keep his voice quiet, serene, and allowed his hand to drop softly onto Crowley's back, just where his left wing lay hidden in the ether. 

"_There's nothing simply good, nor ill alone, of every quality comparison -- the only measure is, and judge, opinion._"

The world stilled, for a moment. 

Then, "angel," Crowley said slowly, "if I thought you truly believed that - "

And just like that, with Crowley poised on the verge of some momentous, disastrous voicing of a truth that had been silently and safely implicit for oh, _millennia_ \-- just like that, Aziraphale couldn't do it.

He patted Crowley's back once, briskly, then in a single motion maneuvered the door open and stepped out onto the cobbles. 

He did believe it. Didn't he? No, of course not. He was an _angel_. Therefore, he was good; and there was also evil, and they were _absolutes_, and Crowley of course was -- was --

His hands were shaking. He couldn't seem to get control over his breath. 

Aziraphale was not ready for this. 

He might, perhaps, someday, be ready for this, but today was not that day. All the blessings in Heaven upon Harriet Vane, but Aziraphale simply did not have it in him, Oxford or no Oxford.

The alabaster arches and copper dome of the Sheldonian shone white and gold and green in the afternoon sun like a vision from centuries past; and he was here, again, after so many years, and with Crowley; and while he might be feeling a taste of freedom, in his own mind, in the bubble of Oxford -- it wouldn't do to forget for a moment that he _wasn't_. That they _weren't_. That they _couldn't_. The weight of their past and their responsibilities was far, far too heavy, and while he might pretend it away for a moment, it was simply not _possible_ to set it down for good.

He stomped very hard on the little voice in the back of his mind, the one that whispered: _yet_. 

It had taken every ounce of courage Aziraphale possessed to invite Crowley on this joint venture, and now he was terrified and all but running back to London; nevertheless he clung to that little _yet_ even as he buried it deep, where no one but him could find it again.

Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath, and steadied himself against the roof of the Bentley. It was of course only the lowering sun that prickled at the corner of his eye. He wiped at it with a kid-gloved hand and turned to open the driver's side door. He tried to put an apology in his gaze as he reached to hand Crowley out of the car.

"Come along, my dear, or we won't find good seats, and I know how you feel about the - the - the acoustics." His voice only broke a little bit.

Crowley sighed deeply, rubbed at his eyes, neglected to comment that they _always_ found good seats, unfolded himself, patted the Bentley a tender farewell, and followed. 

Halfway through the _andante_, purely by chance, and without any intention or particular meaning attached, their hands happened to touch, just along the edges of their smallest fingers. It is possible that their pinky fingers may have hooked together, but no one ever noticed, or in any event commented upon it; so perhaps it was something that they only dreamt, together.

* * *

Much later, after the blessing and the tempting but before the harrowing early-morning drive back to Soho in the darkness that would give way to sunrise just as the Bentley pulled up at the bookshop, they sought out a bench near Magdalen bridge in a puddle of light from an electric street-lamp. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said softly, hands clenched in his lap, before he lost his nerve. _I'm sorry I'm a coward. I'm sorry I can't let go of it all. <strike>(...Yet.)</strike>_

"Whatever for, angel?" Crowley stretched, languorously. "And come on, you know better than that." 

A job well done, and in the end, a lovely day. Crowley wondered if he could convince Aziraphale to make a habit of these joint business trips; even if not, today alone had been worth the risk, as far as he was concerned. They'd tag-teamed the nun; her sisters would be lucky if she ever stopped chattering again. There was absolutely no question that the convent would soon be switching sides. Aziraphale was a magnificent tempter when he put his mind to it, and it had been like balm to Crowley's withered soul to see it in action. He himself had blessed the Shrewsbury library, Aziraphale saying it was only fair since _he'd_ already blessed the betrothal, and, as always, performing a blessing had been - well. Indescribable and so deliciously, licentiously _transgressive_ that he could almost convince himself Hell would approve. The look on Aziraphale's face as he'd done it had been - well. Reverent, almost? It didn't bear thinking about, so Crowley stopped. 

Crowley also wasn't thinking about their aborted conversation, just before the concert. Bloody _Donne_. Aziraphale was sitting next to him, and that was all that mattered.

He made a mental note to peek in at the convent every now and then - Satan worshipers were the _actual worst_, and it wouldn't do to let them get _too_ good at their jobs. 

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale's tense shape and took pity for the second time in a single day (a bit much for a demon, but he'd even it out with the speeding), and let his hand fall carefully to rest on the angel's shoulder. _I know_, said the touch. _You're trying. It's okay. I love you. I'll be here._

Aziraphale felt his corporation begin to relax. He reached up to brush Crowley's fingers with his own, and shifted, ever so slightly, so that their knees nearly touched. He turned his head towards the place where their hands met on his shoulder and did not, exactly, kiss it.

_I am here; I am with you; all is well._

Crowley breathed it in, and relaxed.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, did not, quite, feel the lightness of spirit that Harriet had described; but he was beginning to have faith that one day, perhaps, he would.

A movement at the water's edge caught his attention, and "Oh!" Aziraphale pointed, straightening. "Look! Oh, Crowley!" He reached into his pocket for the remains of the last scone, taken from the tray at the inn that afternoon, and deposited half of it into Crowley's waiting hand.

Despite the lateness of the hour the ducks were, indeed, still there, and what's more, they were still very much appreciative of bread-crumbs.

* * *

* * *

NOTES:

1The Sheldonian was designed by Christopher Wren, urged on by one A. Crowley, then Reader in Physics. It was meant to be part temptation and part career-ruining fiasco, but Crowley had got a bit distracted by Wren's interest in telescopes and had somehow2 forgotten to introduce the necessary error into the load calculations for the dome. Hell might have been upset over that, only they'd been too busy commending him for the report he'd filed about the Great Fire of 1666 (which he'd had no hand in at all3).[return]

2Chris had asked for a second opinion about some fuzziness he couldn't seem to clear up around the second star in Orion's Belt. Crowley had looked through the eyepiece of the University's new refracting telescope, stood back, blinked, and said _Oh_. Then he had looked again, and said, brokenly and with reverence rather than anger for the first time since long before time was a thing, _Oh, God_, as he saw the Orion Nebula, one of the last that he'd designed before it all came crashing down. After that he'd barely left the highest room in the Bodleian's Tower of the Five Orders for the next two years, during which time he'd done his best to check on every celestial object he'd had a hand in, at least those visible from the Northern Hemisphere, and found that most of them were … doing surprisingly well, actually, all told. (It occurred to him at the time that he _could_ visit in person, but since Hell would certainly have Questions if they caught him leaving Earth, he put that little revelation in his back pocket against a rainy day, as it were.) By the time he'd come up for air in 1665 all the load-bearing supports for the Sheldonian were already in place. He'd written it off as a bad job, let Chris buy him a drink, and then taken off for London. Crowley studiously avoided anything at all to do with astronomy from that point forward, until it would suddenly became unavoidable News in the mid-20th century. He'd take a moment to laugh uproariously at the inappropriate false-colour choices made by NASA's PR department; Aziraphale would later give him the Big Book of Astronomy as (he would assume) partly a joke, and partly an unsubtle hint for him to make like a customer and leave the bookshop. [return]

3Except a helping one in the aftermath, if you listened to Aziraphale; which Crowley would prefer that you did not.[return]

4Yes, Crowley named the paper. Yes, it was blatant sucking-up. (4th-wall-breaking note: The _Morning Star_ was a popular newspaper in Wimsey's London; the real-world paper that today bears that name didn't do so until 1966. (Which was also Crowley's doing.))[return]

5 It was the 14th century.6 [return]

6To be fair to Crowley, it was only once in the 14th century; they had met clandestinely7 to feed the ducks at Oxford at least once per century since the heyday of its founding in the 13th (except for the 19th; the only time Aziraphale had been up was while Crowley'd been having his nap). Crowley was probably thinking of a more memorable time around 1660, when they'd not only fed the ducks but gone for a rather lovely punt down the river.[return]

7Heaven and Hell might have been fooled by this masterful feat of subterfuge, but the dons of their respective colleges certainly had not been.[return]

8Possibly true, as Oxford predates St. James's Park by several centuries, although there had already been ducks living quite happily in the marshland west of York Palace prior to the landscaping.[return]

9Most of Aziraphale's memories involved books, and he was hoping to snatch some time while they were there to visit a few old friends at the Bodleian. Crowley's were more varied, and included a spattering of temptations (professors as well as undergraduates), in addition to that one time with the telescope, which he wasn't prepared to discuss with Aziraphale.[return]

10In the world of this story, the state of the roads in 1935 was such that one could feasibly end up on the B4027 when one meant to stay on the A40, especially when distracted by an angel desperate for Peace Babies (the post-WWI name for Jelly Babies). [return]

11Lowercase, so as to distinguish it from the Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, et cetera, et cetera.[return]

12150 mph, and counting.[return]

13It was this incident that finally convinced Crowley to upgrade to the (much larger and flashier) Blaupunkt, though the switch would have little effect in the long run.[return]

14Crowley had never been entirely sure whether cockblocking was a net evil or a net good, considering Heaven's avowed views on love vs. lust; but he'd been writing it up in his reports for millennia, and wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.[return]

15He was going for "suave", but ended up somewhere more in the vicinity of "fussy".[return]

16Crowley had become quite practiced at _dispensing_ blessings over the course of the Arrangement, but _receiving_ one could result in third-degree burns, and getting caught in the backwash would, at minimum, itch like hell for a week. [return]

17Some might argue that a village five miles outside of Oxford is hardly _countryside_. Aziraphale, however, has not willingly set foot outside of urban centers since their invention.[return]

18Aziraphale sometimes felt that nightingales were _following him around_. (He was correct.)[return]

19The lifting of a curse is, in essence, similar to a blessing; the lifting of a curse that had never properly landed because there had been no true intent behind it in the first place feels _exactly identical_ to a blessing. [return]

20She hadn't, but it would have given her quite a start to see him so unchanged since those heady days in Victoria's court.[return]

21The Blackfriars (Dominican monks) had been the first group to teach in Oxford, starting in 1221. Aziraphale was definitely among them. They were dissolved during the Reformation but were re-established in 1921, though only as a church and priory, and moved to a new building in 1929, the same year that Peter met Harriet. Since Wimsey had been at Oxford from 1909-1912 and Mr Fell was apparently his age or perhaps a bit older, he was understandably confused at the idea of Aziraphale attending Blackfriars. [return]

22If Crowley's main goal in this conversation hadn't been _to end it as quickly as possible_, he might have added that Balliol was, in fact, his, in the same way that Merton was Aziraphale's. Merton and Balliol (along with University) are the oldest of the proper colleges, though which was first is a matter of debate; in any case they were established late in the 13th century. Aziraphale had been working on Heaven's behalf to bring about a communion of scholars dedicated to the greater glory of the Almighty. Crowley, doing his best to thwart said goals, had somehow tumbled into accidentally founding a chair in Astronomy. He was still a little tetchy about it. Balliol men, however, had ever since been notorious for possessing something akin to "the tranquil consciousness of an effortless superiority" (H.H. Asquith via Wikipedia). Crowley had received a minor commendation for lasting achievements in the category of Pride, and it was - just a little bit - gratifying to see how well the old blood held true in Wimsey.[return]

23Many couples would have found it unusual to idly discuss theological concepts in the middle of the afternoon. For Harriet and Peter, it was an ordinary Monday.[return]

24This had happened to Crowley exactly once, and never would again.[return]

25Aziraphale was kidding himself, as everyone knows who has ever spent longer than a day on the grounds of any university.[return]

26Aziraphale from the very beginning had felt something very similar to what Crowley did, whenever they touched - see above - only he'd never, not once, been able to rationalize it away as a refraction of divine love. [return]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Sorry. That's what they can manage right now. They are just a pair of <strike>winged idiots</strike>pragmatic realists in love. You almost got some hand-holding, though! Check back in eight decades.
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to melannen for making sure I didn't perform utter character assassination upon Harriet Vane. 
> 
> This was supposed to be a quick 1000-word one-shot about OMG BUT WHAT IF CROWLEY AND LORD PETER RACED THEIR SUPER COOL HOT RODS. But somehow I have ended up checking books of poetry out of the library and researching 1930s mens' fashion as well as the entire history of Oxford, whyyyyyy. This is definitely Lord Peter's fault, and also Aziraphale's.
> 
> When he takes off his Homburg, Crowley's hair looks like [#14 on this page](https://menhairstylesworld.com/1930s-mens-hairstyles/). I only described Crowley's outfit, but you can pry my David Tennant paper dolls from my cold dead fingers. Might as well have Harriet and Peter in [these outfits from the last two scenes of the BBC Gaudy Night miniseries](https://youtu.be/IwDoLsZoKPo?t=2773) (the action of the story takes place shortly after the credits scene here, though in _most_ other elements I've adhered to LPW book canon, except that I've made Peter accompany Harriet to Denver before haring straight off to Rome after Oxford). And Aziraphale looks the same as he has since at least the 1890s.
> 
> I don't know _anything at all_ about the repair of vintage automobiles, and it probably shows. But neither does Crowley, so it's okay(??).
> 
> Everything I know about Oxford I learned from Dorothy Sayers and the internet. 
> 
> Harriet of course is quoting from [the poem she and Peter wrote together at Oxford](https://commonplaces.blogspot.com/2007/10/that-still-centre.html), which I just can’t with how perfect. 
> 
> Everything I know about John Donne [I learned from skimming the this article](http://www.shirleymohr.com/JHU/Sample_Articles_JHUP/ELH_2005_72_1.pdf); apologies if I've messed something up. 
> 
> Donne quotations:
> 
> Wimsey's quote is from ["The Sunne Rising," lines 9 and 10.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44129/the-sun-rising)
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley quote from [The Progresse of the Soule](http://www.luminarium.org/editions/metempsycosis.htm), first verse XI, and finally verse LII.


	2. Leave Us the Counterpoint: Playlist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for my Good Omens / Lord Peter Wimsey crossover fic _Leave Us the Counterpoint_ (see Chapter 1), available on Youtube and Spotify. (The two lists are the same, except that Spotify is missing the Wimsey theme.)
> 
> I will admit: this is only partly a soundtrack for the fic, and mostly an excuse to look up all the music mentioned in _Gaudy Night_. Almost everything dates to the 1930s or earlier, with a few glaring exceptions.

[Playlist on Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-ujL9XWTfeH72-3UmRYrQlphmuCZbCR5):  


[Playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5marTIug6TzYbK9j7qFdxp?si=AFFXHbtBS_OA1hJ_PJ8lkg):  


**1 Good Omens - All Change** (instrumental)  
Entr'acte.

**2 Dorothy Sayers Mysteries - Theme** (instrumental)  
Entr'acte, Pt. II.

**3 Sugar Ray - Every Morning**  
Apologies for the inappropriate 90s music, but this is like, the Arrangement in distilled form.

_Every morning when I wake up there's a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed_  
_I know it's not mine but I see if I can use it for a weekend or a one-night stand_  
…  
_Every morning there's a heartache hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed_  
_I know it's not mine and I know she thinks she loves me but I never can believe what she said_  
_Couldn't understand_  
_How to work it out_

**4 Al Bowlly - I'll String Along With You**  
Crowley and Aziraphale, sticking together.

_For every little fault that you have_  
_Say I've got three or four_  
_The human little faults you do have_  
_Just make me love you more_  
_You may not be an angel_  
_But still I'm sure you'll do_  
_So until the day that one comes along_  
_I'll string along with you_

**5 Mike Daniels Band - Don't You Think I Love You (Version 1)** (Instrumental)  
Basically, the subtext of everything Crowley has ever said to Aziraphale.

**6 Tommy Dorsey - Did I Remember**  
No, Aziraphale, you did not remember.

_Did I remember to tell you I adore you_  
_And I am living for you alone?_  
_Did I remember to say "I'm lost without you"_  
_And just how mad about you I've grown?_

**7 Fain would I change that Note - C. W. Orr (Elizabethan air, composed by Thomas Hume)**  
In Gaudy Night, this is one of the songs that Peter plays and sings on the spinet in the antique store.

_Fain would I change that note_  
_To which fond Love hath charm'd me_  
_Long, long to sing by rote,_  
_Fancying that that harm'd me:_  
...  
_I do adore thee:_  
_I know thee what thou art,_  
_I serve thee with my heart,_  
_And fall before thee._

**8 Bing Crosby - Love In Bloom**  
Also in Gaudy Night, this is the earwormy pop song that all the annoying undergraduate couples play on repeat on their portable gramophones while they punt on the Thames.

_Blue nights and you alone with me._  
_My heart has never known such ecstasy._  
_Am I on earth? Am I in Heaven?_  
_Can it be the trees that fill the breeze_  
_With rare and magic perfume?_  
_Oh no, it isn't the trees_  
_It's love in bloom._

**9 Jackie Brenston & His Delta Cats - Rocket 88**  
Crowley and Peter and their ridiculous cars.

_You have heard of jalopies_  
_You heard the noise they make_  
_Let me introduce you to my Rocket 88_  
_Yes, it's great, just won't wait_  
_Everybody likes my Rocket 88_

**10 Rob Mosher - 1920s Car Chase**  
The race! (This track was almost _Sabre Danse_, you're welcome.)

**11 Merseysippi Jazz Band - Get Out & Get Under**  
Self-explanatory.

_A dozen times they'd start to hug and kiss_  
_And then the darned old engine it would miss,_  
_And then he'd have to get under,_  
_Get out and get under,_  
_And fix up his automobile._

**12 John Donne - The Sun Rising** (read by Christopher Hassell)  
[The poem that Peter quotes in part to Crowley.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44129/the-sun-rising)

**13 Armand Mestral - Auprès de ma blonde**  
This is the French children's song that is inappropriately stuck in Peter's head for the entirety of _Busman's Honeymoon._ It's very 19th-century Crowley, don't you think?

_Dans les jardins de mon père_  
_Les lauriers sont fleuris._  
_Tous les oiseaux du monde_  
_Y viennent fair’ leur nid._  
_Auprès de ma blonde,_  
_Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,_  
_Auprès de ma blonde,_  
_Qu’il fait bon dormir. _

_(In my father's garden_  
_The laurel is in bloom._  
_All the birds in the world_  
_Come there to make their nests._  
_Next to my fair-haired love,_  
_How good, how good, how good it is,_  
_Next to my fair-haired love,_  
_How good it is to sleep.)_

**14 Yorkshire Jazz Band - Snake Rag** (instrumental)  
This song plays in the background everywhere Crowley goes from ca. 1910-1940.

**15 Brigid's Daughters - Lo, Here Another Love**  
More Renaissance music from _Gaudy Night_ \- this is one of Morley's _Canzonets for Two Voices_ that Peter asks Harriet if she knows. It's not the one that he quotes, but this one seems to fit better.

_Lo here another love from heaven descended._  
_That with forces anew and with new darting,_  
_doth wound the heart, and yet doth breed no smarting._

**16 Billy Murray - The Little Ford Rambled Right Along**  
Oh look it's another song about cars.

_And the little old Ford it rambled right along,_  
_The gas burned out in the big machine,_  
_But the darned little Ford don't need gasoline,_  
_The big limousine had to back down hill._  
_The blamed little Ford is going up still,_  
_When she blow out a tire just wrap it up with wire,_  
_And the little Ford will ramble right along._

**17 Ella Fitzgerald - How Long Has This Been Going On?**  
Probably only like SIX MILLENNIA or something.

_I could cry salty tears_  
_Where have I been all these years?_  
_Little wow, tell me now_  
_How long has this been goin' on?_

_There were chills up my spine_  
_And some thrills I can't define_  
_Listen sweet, I repeat_  
_How long has this been goin' on?_

**18 Rebecca Sugar - Love Like You** (Steven Universe end credits)  
Aziraphale is having a crisis. <strike>(Oops another anachronism)</strike>

_If I could begin to be_  
_Half of what you think of me_  
_I could do about anything_  
_I could even learn how to love_  
…  
_When I see the way you look_  
_Shaken by how long it took_  
_I could do about anything_  
_I could even learn how to love like you_

**19 Britten: The Holy Sonnets of John Donne, Op. 35 - 4. Oh, To Vex Me (performed by Sir Peter Pears)**  
Aziraphale is having a panic attack.

_Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one:_  
_Inconstancy unnaturally hath begott_  
_A constant habit; that when I would not_  
_I change in vowes, and in devotione._  
_As humorous is my contritione_  
_As my prophane Love, and as soone forgott:_  
_As ridlingly distemper'd, cold and hott,_  
_As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none._  
_I durst not view heaven yesterday; and to day_  
_In prayers, and flattering speaches I court God:_  
_To morrow I quake with true feare of his rod._  
_So my devout fitts come and go away_  
_Like a fantistique Ague: save that here_  
_Those are my best dayes, when I shake with feare._

**20 Bach - Double Violin Concerto in D minor 2nd movement (Largo)  
** 21 Handel - Water Music, Suite No. 3 in G Major: III. Minuet - Andante  
Please imagine Crowley and Aziraphale holding fingers while you enjoy this short concert.

**22 Bing Crosby - Did You Ever See A Dream Walking**  
Crowley's happy! Also Peter's happy! And Harriet's happy! Basically everyone is happy except Aziraphale, who is a disaster angel.

_Did you ever see heaven right in your arms, saying, "I love you, I do"_  
_Well, the dream that was walking and the dream that was talking_  
_And the heaven in my arms was you_

_Did you ever see a dream walking? Well, I did_  
_Did you ever hear a dream talking? Well, I did_  
_Did you ever have a dream thrill you with, "Will you be mine?"_  
_Oh, it's so grand and it's too, too divine_

**23 The Supremes - You Can't Hurry Love**  
Timely reminder for the reader. Ineffable, really.

_Mama said_  
_You can't hurry love_  
_No, you just have to wait_  
_She said love don't come easy_  
_It's a game of give and take_

**24 Woody Guthrie - Car Song**  
Time to drive back to London! It'll be fun!

_I'm a gonna send you home again;_  
_Boom, boom, buhbuh boom, rolling home_  
_Take you riding in my car_

_I'm a gonna let you blow the horn;_  
_I'm a gonna let you blow the horn;_  
_A oorah, a oorah, a oogah, oogah_  
_I'll take you riding in my car_

**25 Molotov Cocktail Piano - Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy** (instrumental Queen cover)  
As required by law.

**26 Good Omens - End of This Story** (instrumental)  
Exeunt, pursued by a duck.


	3. Polyphony (An Alternate Ending)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I added an alternate ending, tell the world, why don't you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to happen, but a certain soft and annoying snake whispered in my ear all night about how _he_ has agency here, too, and how it's really not nice to leave the angel all sad and anxious when he knows just the right way to make it better.
> 
> Damn it.
> 
> No more after this.

As Aziraphale launched himself out of the car, Crowley was thinking: _this is stupid._

_This is stupid, and we're stupid, and everything about this is bloody stupid._ He pushed up his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes with one finger and thumb, sighing deeply.

It wasn't as though they didn't both know exactly what they meant to each other. Aziraphale knew how he felt, and he knew how Aziraphale felt, and Aziraphale knew that he knew, and he knew that Aziraphale knew, and he knew that Aziraphale knew that he knew, and -- 

_Everything is stupid._

They'd got so used to not saying it, over so many centuries, but why on Earth couldn't that change? What in heaven was stopping them?

Right. Of course. Heaven was stopping them.

But it's not like it was anything _new_. It wouldn't be a revelation. No one was watching them, no one was listening - the whole bloody Arrangement was predicated on that assumption, and if he'd been wrong about _that_, they both would have been done for by the 800s.

Crowley, anyway, didn't need the words. He'd happily toddle along with Aziraphale for the rest of time, as long as nothing changed between them for the worse.

Aziraphale, though - Aziraphale was leaning against the Bentley, against the rear driver's side door, and his sides were heaving as though he'd forgotten he didn't need to breathe and couldn't quite remember how. Aziraphale looked as though he was about to vibrate himself into the ethereal plane with the simultaneous effort of wanting to let go while having to hold back.

Crowley didn't regret pushing, though he hadn't foreseen quite the violence of this reaction. Bloody _Donne_, anyway. But, as always, Crowley would do just about anything to stop Aziraphale's distress, and if the angel needed words … 

_This is stupid_, Crowley thought. _Fuck it._

Aziraphale startled when the car door opened beside him, and shuffled a bit to the side as Crowley closed it with a soft _snkt_ and leaned back against it.

Crowley folded his arms and crossed his ankles in his best "why yes, I _do_ have the coolest car in town, thanks for noticing" lounge. Once projecting the desired effect, he turned his attention fully to Aziraphale, who was curled in on himself, eyes screwed tightly closed.

"Hey, Aziraphale," said Crowley, softly. "Breathe, all right? I know you don't need to, but you'll feel better."

Aziraphale's eyes blinked open. "I - _Crowley_ \- " his breath hitched. "I - I -"

"Hush," whispered Crowley, and, miracle of miracles, Aziraphale did. He kept his eyes on Crowley's face as his breathing slowed, evened. Crowley nodded. "There, better?"

Aziraphale nodded, started to speak, stopped, looked away.

"Aziraphale, I'd like to say something to you," Crowley said, quietly. "It's nothing you don't already know, and you don't have to answer. May I?"

It was a very long moment later that Aziraphale nodded, one small abrupt motion of his chin, still looking away. His shoulders were trembling.

"I love you," Crowley said simply. "I always have. I always will."

Aziraphale gasped. He clapped a hand over his mouth as he turned to meet Crowley's gaze through the dark lenses, eyes wide and watery and terrified. 

They looked at each other for another very long moment, and nothing happened. No lightning. No earthquakes. No affronted reprimands crackled through the Transistone, no miraculous scrolls of warning appeared out of thin air. 

What happened was this: a nightingale wheeled overhead, calling out to its mate. The doors to the Sheldonian opened wide, and academics began to trickle inside, wrestling against their robes and caps in the sudden soft breeze. Discordant notes wafted out, the sound of musicians warming up their instruments, tuning the strings. Across the square, an undergraduate called to her friend in greeting. The sunlight reflected off the Bentley's gleaming roof and caught in Aziraphale's hair. 

"There, you see?" said Crowley, breathing out. "No one's listening. And - you already knew all that, I know. And I know - well, I know you feel the same. It never - it never needs saying. Not now, not ever, not really. But you know - Aziraphale, if you want to. Or if you need to. You _can_. It's all right. Nothing has to fester in your head like this. Not forever."

Crowley almost wanted to close his eyes against the angel's reaction, but he didn't. What did he have to worry about? It was just the obvious, just what they'd both understood for, oh, millennia. He hadn't thought saying it would feel so new, not when _nothing at all_ about this was new. He kept his eyes on Aziraphale's, and held his breath instead.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, though his fingers, voice breaking. "I - oh, Crowley - I _did_ know how you felt, and I _do_ feel the same, and -- oh, _God_, can it really be this easy?"

"Well, not if you go bringing Her into it," Crowley smiled, sighed out all his tension. He was still wearing his black leather driving gloves, and he reached out now to brush the back of two fingers against the cream-coloured kid that stretched across Aziraphale's hand, still covering his mouth. "I think it _can_ be that easy, though, if we let it."

Aziraphale turned his hand to link Crowley's gloved fingers with his own, and behind them he was smiling, brokenly, but wide and true, and in this moment, free. "Crowley, I _love_ you."

Crowley felt something lurch in his chest, and something else fluttered in, made a nest, and settled in to stay for the long haul. That was - unexpected. That was new, too.

He blinked rapidly, mind running back to that moment in the pub, when he'd been so certain Aziraphale was about to call everything off.

His fingers tightened over Aziraphale's. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he had needed the words, after all.

"While we're having a moment of amnesty," he said, looking down at their two hands linked together, "there's one more thing I'd like to say. If I may."

"My dear, of _course_," said Aziraphale, quietly. He brought his other hand up to clasp Crowley's in between them, a mirror of the way they'd sat together at the pub. "What is it?"

"Thank you," said Crowley. "For letting me say it. That's all. Just, thanks. Don't make it a thing," he warned, or possibly pleaded.

"Oh! Oh, of course not." Aziraphale smiled like the sun. "But then you must let me return it, just this once. Thank you, Crowley, for having courage enough _to_ say it. And for - for everything else."

With an effort, Crowley bit back his reflexive discomfort in the face of gratitude. Verbal amnesty had been his idea, after all. There was one bit about that, though -- "Wasn't courage, angel. It was exasperation."

"Oh!" At that, Aziraphale laughed out loud, and tipped his head forward into Crowley's shoulder; a moment that was so unexpected it was over before Crowley could even react. 

As Aziraphale's head came up, he was biting his lip, eyes still sparkling but with a worried tinge to them, now. "What do we do now?" he whispered.

Crowley hummed. "First, we go to the concert," he said. "And then we do our jobs, and we go home. You'll put up some anti-aristocrat warding at the bookshop. I'll probably run into you at the bakery on Thursday. And you'll stop looking as though you'll spontaneously combust every time you lay eyes on me."

"I - oh." Aziraphale looked away, abashed. "Have I been that obvious?"

"Just a bit."

"Ah - sorry."

"Come now. No need for that."

"Nothing has to change?"

"Not unless we want it to. Except - maybe you can dial down the anxiety, a bit?"

Aziraphale smiled, wonderingly. "I expect I can. I think I know what Miss Vane meant, now, about it becoming suddenly very easy."

"Well, good."

"Do you - want things to change?"

Crowley blinked, started to speak, paused. He hadn't thought this far ahead, hadn't expected it to go farther than merely putting words to the blessedly obvious truth. He had absolutely no idea. "I have no idea, angel. I only wanted us to stop being bloody stupid about what we're allowed to say. Do _you_ want things to change?"

"I don't know, either. Do - do we have to know?"

"We don't _have_ to do anything. Or not do anything. Except the minimum job descriptions, I guess. That's my whole point."

"Oh. Oh, good. That's good." Aziraphale smiled. "But you forgot something, my dear."

"What now?"

"Ducks!" said Aziraphale triumphantly. "We've got to remember to feed the ducks!"

"Ah. Right," said Crowley. He reached out with his free hand and tucked a wayward curl behind Aziraphale's ear. "We'll feed the ducks, then, too. Later."

Aziraphale hummed. "Thursday, you said? Brunch?"

"Why not?"

"Why not indeed?"

Crowley and Aziraphale smiled at each other, softly, for a long moment, their hands together, leaning against the car. It was a feeling they'd both had before, that of laying their burdens down, knowing each other entire; only this time it was not merely a sense of relief and understanding, but also a deep and profound joy. And something else was different, too; it might have been only that when it came time to pick up their burdens again and go on their way, perhaps Aziraphale might, this time, heft up Crowley's and carry them off with him, and vice versa. 

All across Oxford, clock towers rang out, tolling the quarter hour, breaking the spell. Aziraphale shook his head, laughing; and Crowley did, too, nearly losing his hat as he threw his head back against the roof of the Bentley.

"Come along, my dear," Aziraphale said, reclaiming one hand to gesture towards the still-open door of the concert hall. "It's about to start, and we must get good seats! I know how you feel about the acoustics."

"Angel, there's no rush, we _always_ have the best seats," Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale's hand was in his, tugging him along; and, as ever, he followed in the angel's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT. THE END. ALL GONE. NO MORE. I HAVE OTHER THINGS TO WRITE.


End file.
